


Last of the Basilisks

by alephthirteen



Series: The Topsy-Verse [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Cursed Child - Thorne & Rowling
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Auror Harry, BAMF Hermione Granger, Delphini Riddle Gets Taken Under Hermione's Wing, F/F, F/M, Fashion Mogul Gabrielle, Fleur Teaches Defense Against the Dark Arts, Fleur and Parvati are Naughty Little Girls and Get Called Into the Office, Former Minister of Magic Hermione Granger, Hermione Is Headmistress Now, New Hogwarts, New Houses, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Parvati Teaches Divinations, Same Bullshit, Shapeshifters - Freeform, mixed race Hermione
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-12 02:35:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29752797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alephthirteen/pseuds/alephthirteen
Summary: Gryffindor's sword is stuck into soft cork beside her desk and the Sorting Hat is drying, held up by the hilt. The skull of Voldemort's accursed pet, Nagini, sits on her desk next to the ruined and inert Triwizard cup and the carcass of a nargle–-they exist, and Luna made a hundred galleons off their bet-–replacing the lost totems of Slytherin, Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw that were destroyed in the hunt for the horcruxes.'Just a year or two. You'll need something to do before you can run for minister again. I cannot think who better to carry on than my prized pupil.'Hermione got played, she now realizes. She can hardly begrudge Professor McGonagall for retiring. Not many would be brave enough to wait sixty years to acknowledge their wife and she cannot imagine how uncomfortable Sybil Trelawney got over the years.-----"It's actually rather comfy," the headmistress jokes just before the moldering old hat falls over her eyes.Well now…"Well, what?"Delphini Riddle herself."You know who I am?"More than you, girl. Does the name Tom Riddle mean anything to you?
Relationships: Fleur Delacour/Hermione Granger, Fleur Delacour/Hermione Granger/Parvati Patil, Gabrielle Delacour/Harry Potter, Luna Lovegood/Ginny Weasley
Series: The Topsy-Verse [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2186727
Comments: 6
Kudos: 21





	1. Renaming and Re-Sorting

**Author's Note:**

> This work is a sequel to "Topsy Turvy, Switchy Witchy, Bottoms Up Buttercup!" and happens several decades after, when our girls and boys are at the top of their game in their careers. There are spoilers, to the extent that alive characters indicate how the war went.
> 
> Sometimes this one will be on pause until a reveal in "Topsy" lets this one move forward without being spoiler-y.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where sometimes a fresh start means a new castle, new Houses and a new Headmistress....

****

**  
Hermione Granger – August 31, 2020**

Gryffindor's sword is stuck into soft cork beside her desk and the Sorting Hat is drying, held up by the hilt. The skull of Voldemort's accursed pet, Nagini, sits on her desk next to the ruined and inert Triwizard cup and the carcass of a nargle–they exist, and Luna made a hundred galleons off their bet–replacing the lost totems of Slytherin, Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw that were destroyed in the hunt for the horcruxes.

' _Just a year or two. You'll need something to do before you can run for minister again. I cannot think who better to carry on than my prized pupil.'_

Hermione got played, she now realizes. She can hardly begrudge Professor McGonagall for retiring. Not many would be brave enough to wait sixty years to acknowledge their wife and she cannot imagine how uncomfortable Sybil Trelawney got over the years, being the butt of jokes from students and staff alike while 'Minnie' rose to a prominence second only to Dumbledore himself.

Twenty years spent rebuilding the school they both adored. After that, to say that her mentors had earned retirement was like saying the ocean was full of water.

Which leaves her in the ashen tomb of Dumbledore's office in the ruins of the old castle.

Out the window, she can see the new incarnation of Hogwarts rising proudly out of the lake on a column of basalt. Designed as a pentagram that traces the colliding ley lines, it has four dormitory towers, one per house, equal in height and width and each with their own house libraries, study halls, owleries and observatories plus a massive tower at the east end with offices, the main library and most of the classrooms. In between, roofs and courtyards are jumbled inside the massive walls like an uneven quilt. Clever of McGonagall, to make the castle a memorial to the war dead and construct a castle (and island) from scratch. The replacement is laid out more sanely and the various faculty and student experiments that littered Hogwarts with centuries-old curses, beasts, and homicidal cookware stayed behind. That castle is actually safe. Faculty labs, training areas for dueling and dangerous classes like Defense Against the Dark Arts still happen here, in the ruined south wing, where no one actually died in the battle.

The water allows for far stronger protective charms, too. Hogwarts only looked impregnable before. Now her wards rely not just on runes but on the churn and rage of the ocean, drawn from an underground river that snakes from a fissure in the lake bed all the way to the North Sea.

"You're a scowler, headmistress. You realize that, don't you?"

"Tell me again."

"The Sorting was all sorted," the hat sings. "The Houses were all choosed!"

"Morgana's tits, hat. The spoken version, not the song. Also, Miri Lovegood needs an Occult Orchestra study partner. Get her and her mum to help with the lyrics."

"Someone's a rather Grumpy Gryffindor."

A small roll of parchment appears in the hat's buckle, which she unclips and rolls out on the desk.

"The new houses?"

"Mmm," the Hat rumbles.

"So we're switching over next term?"

"We switch over," the hat practically growls, "When I see the last one."

"Binding orders from a cryptic hat," she sighs. "Got it. The ministry will love it."

The cheeky thing even made the note in her own shorthand, exactly as she used it in first and second year. Meaning it's stuffed that stolen thought away since it first landed on her head.

> _House Slytherin becomes House Greengrass_
> 
> _memorial for Astoria Greengrass, mascot Arabian Basilisk, sponsor Fleur Delacour, charity civil rights and social justice, traits loyalty and love_
> 
> _House Hufflepuff becomes House Diggory_
> 
> _memorial for Cedric Diggory, mascot Jacob's Sheep Ram, sponsor Neville Longbottom, charities prevention of hunger and medical care, traits friendliness and ferocity_
> 
> _House Gryffindor becomes House Weasley_
> 
> _memorial for Fred Weasley, mascot Fox, sponsor Ginny Weasley, charity prevention of domestic violence, traits courage, constancy, and commitment_
> 
> _House Ravenclaw becomes House Granger_
> 
> _memorial for Dr. Thomas Granger, mascot Scandavian Stormwing Dragon, charity cancer research, sponsor Hermione Granger, traits intelligence, introspection_

Hermione lets herself sink back in her chair.

"Looking at this, I think you're right."

"The founders did enchant me," the hat reminds her.

She wipes a tear away on her sleeve.

"Eleven years, dad. You think I'd be all cried out about it."

She sucks in a long, sloppy breath between her sobs. She traces his name on the parchment. If it was possible to _make_ a ghost, Hermione would be up to her ears in bloodstained necromancy scrolls. As it is, she can simply hope her father's listening.

"Mum'll flip, you realize this, right? She's the one who had to bluff the Death Eater at the Sydney Airport, and you're the one who gets a house named after you. Your granddaughters will get a kick out of it, at least. Prim writes you letters every Sunday."

"Fuck cancer," she sniffs.

She folds the paper up and tucks it into her pocket.

The fact that there's a house named after her muggle dad will make a ghastly mess.

The Sorting Hat holds semi-divine regard in Wizarding education circles. The mind-reading spells within it are the envy of the best magical psychologists, and the fragmentary souls of the founders represent one of three known non-evil uses of soul magic. Its creation is one of Hogwarts' few secrets that was never aped by the other academies.

The end of the four houses will be the biggest shock to tradition since the Leveling Act disbanded eleven families which had collaborated with Voldemort.

It seems mad to say it's been 'only' twenty years since the war. Trauma heals faster than grudges fade, she has learned. Even with the blood purists dead, jailed, or bankrupt, the war staggers on because the fears that drove it–loss of status, financial ruin, extinction–still linger in the ever poorer, ever more isolated, ever more inbred and eccentric pureblood families.

It's fought now in bank vaults and Wizgamot's offices, with investments and convoluted marriage contracts and new businesses as the ascendant noble houses created by the heroes ally with the non-noble assemblies of muggleborns, knighted veterans founding new houses, and the like. The remaining pureblood lines in the moderate Greengrass-Zabini-Bulstrode camp haven't managed to flesh out a reformed version of pureblood traditions that makes a clean break with blood supremacy while preserving other ways of wizarding high society.

Hermione went into her first election perfectly positioned.

The disgusting truth about the last Heir of Slytherin and his two private genocides made dark magic and blood purity so toxic that thriving businesses crumbled under so much as a rumor about the owners. With Harry's memoirs came a more realistic reading of the legacy of the two most famed Gryffindors in ages, Dumbledore and Harry. Dumbledore had been ready to sacrifice a child like a fatted calf and Harry had to reckon with how often Gryffindor came out to mean 'bullying Malfoy', putting a smaller but vivid stain on the snow-white reputation of the Light.

Hermione could navigate it as a muggle-born primarily because neither side produced her. The dark had victimized her extensively, making her allying with the Light logical. Her credentials as an Anti-Death Eater made her invincible to so much as a whisper of any M-word. She could speak without shame or favoritism about light and its champions like Harry. The Chosen One's memoir admits that his OWLs should be in her name, not his.

Her re-election will likely be a stroll, if she can ever get out of this trap McGonagall laid by retiring. Grieving parents, grieving widows, and brothers who fought brothers left simmering hatreds slicing Britain apart like rivers of magma. Rivers she will be diving into head first when she announces a raft of reforms at Hogwarts and does away with the houses of old.

She should have known any favor involving the word 'Hogwarts' was bound to be a nightmare.

"You're a truly evil piece of headgear, you realize that?"

Her leathery, floppy tormentor tips his brim at her.

\-----

**The Orphan | September 1, 2020**

The hall is grander than she expected. The enchanted ceiling displays wispy images of the wizarding world as they happen. A woman in the robes of a MACUSA diplomat, shaking hands with a French official. A Moroccan wizard pulling a red-haired boy to him in the middle of a burning city. A pair of Russian wizards and a pair of witches–two sets of twins–facing off with a massive black dragon with the Kremlin visible in the skyline.

"Oh, I hope I get sorted to Slytherin!" Mary Parkinson gushes. "That's where all the clever witches go."

"I can't believe Pansy's daughter is even more annoying than she is," sniffs a ghostly pale little girl with hair the shade of the midday sun. She elbows her friend. "Think she's got any brains up there, or just a buzzing cloud of wrackspurts?"

"I think the tanning bed got them," squeaks a small boy with plum-dark skin and ice-blue eyes. He's got a Belfast accent, which combined with his high voice makes him nigh-unintelligible when he's excited. "Happens in America, that's what me da' says."

The tiny, chirping creature that is Liam Finnegan somehow decided _she_ was the safe person to befriend on the ride across the lake, meaning she heard all about how his dads were scared to send him here and how many times _they_ nearly got killed over six years.

A couple of weeks ago, after three bobbies had cornered her for shoplifting tampons when a scruffy, green-eyed fellow with a nasty scar on his forehead came appeared with a 'pop', waved a fancy stick, and teleported them both away.

_'Sorry it took so long to find you. I've been exactly where you are. Scared, alone, confused. Thinking I just went mad. Magic's a nasty surprise, isn't it?'_

_'Who are you?'_

_'Harry Potter. I'm a wizard. So are you. Witch, rather.'_

Her rescuer turned out to be some world-famous hero and his wife, some equally famous French athlete-turned-model-turned-designer. So she ended up in a spare bedroom in a dusty row-house while someone who was not her mother fussed over her, fattening her with pastries and jams and French toast. Four little girls with pale skin and hair like melted butter poked in and out of the guest room. Curious about the intruder. A nasty, smirking little creature named Kreacher cleaned up. He seemed as happy to be stuck with Harry as Harry was with him.

Magic is terrifying, and the people who do it are worse. At least it's not the orphanage with the nuns, or the crumbling streets of Sheffield after she ran off. She's ill at ease in this crowd–older, taller, gangly–with no family, no direction, no more magic than she could learn by ransacking her host's home library for two weeks.

No clue what her own name actually is.

Mary Emilia is most certainly _not_ her name. She never liked it, but after Harry rescued her, she knew in her guts it wasn't her actual name.

All the more humiliating are the twelve-year-olds who surround her. She's starting first year at sixteen, two-and-a-half years older than the next-oldest. Artemisia Fitz at least has the excuse that as the bastard daughter of a pure-blood witch and the American she met on holiday, her magical bloodlines were tangled and split between the oceans. Arty said that it was a fight between schools rather than a failure of the adults to detect her magic.

Both countries probably wanted her for her perfect teeth, her boobs and the shiny red hair down to her bum. Some sort of tradition keeps her from saying who her mother is, If the murder eyes on Supria Greengrass are any sign, the mystery ginger with the nasal Boston accent is also a Greengrass. Supria obviously wasn't expecting her half-sister to attend and seems to be bitchier, blonder and a fan of frowning. Besides the hair color, they might as well be clones.

"My students! My friends!" booms a woman's voice.

"She's using Sonorous!" A boy next to her whispers. "Brilliant."

"'Course she is. It makes your voice loud," the pale blond sniffs. "She's not an idiot. The Brightest Witch, they used to call her. Didn't you know that?"

The headmistress–Granger–has skin the color of tea with a splash of cream and a thick mane of curly, dark brown hair. She looks out over the students and smiles brilliantly, opening her arms as if to hug them all.

Rather than robes, she wears a burgundy suit jacket with a black silk blouse underneath. Her wand dances between her fingers as she rolls it back and forth like nervous children do a pencil.

"Greetings, students! Welcome back to Hogwarts. We have three tasks this evening: to learn from me, to learn about ourselves, and to learn about each other. Firstly…"

The headmistress' grin only grows.

"...as I am the adult, or so professor Binns tells me, I will share some brief announcements with you. Professor Longbottom would like to remind returning students that the plants in faculty greenhouses are not for recreational use of any kind. They are dangerous whether nibbled, rubbed or smoked."

"Professor Lovegood asks that all students keep an eye out in the hallwa-"

"That's me mum!" the pale girl behind her shrieks.

"-as I was saying. Professor Lovegood informs me that the giant squid has upset the grindylows and they've taken to nesting on the lawns near the shore and in some cases sneaking into the laundry and the kitchens. They're nasty little beasts and I don't want anyone bitten. Those of you who are joining us from your homes in Ireland, Iceland, the Scandinavian nations, and Holland should not hesitate to check with her if you need help as an exchange student."

"On a related note, our new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, Madame Delacour, will be teaching you some desiccating charms tomorrow that will send them packing with their gills in a knot. She will also be the point of contact for our American, French, and Russian exchange students."

A blonde woman with skin that sparkles faintly in the candlelight nods to the headmistress before turning her smile back on the students. Every boy in the hall sighs at once, and Artemisia gives a sort of whine, like a hungry puppy.

"Professor Patil hopes you all brought your crystal balls, but she has foreseen that some of you have forgotten. There will be a list by the door for those of you who forgot and you will need to owl home. Given the weight of the crystal balls, we will be using thestrals and hippogriffs to carry the parcels, not owls. So please arrange with your friends to ship them in groups."

"Before we dismiss you to your dormitories tonight, our potions mistress, Professor Parkinson will be directing you alphabetically for inoculations against centaur itch, hippogriff fever, and so on."

"As I say every year, but not all of you _hear_ every year, we strictly forbid you to be in your animagus form in the hallways except during supervised clubs. We forbid you to use your beast to harass, inconvenience, or attack others. Believe me when I tell you that you will get caught and the consequences will be severe. Your house prefects are all handpicked by the faculty you see here. All but three of my colleagues at this table fought with me against the terrorist Voldemort during the war when we were your age. The prefects we picked are just as formidable without their wands or opposable thumbs."

Two tiny people–like Kreacher but with smiles–wheel out a cart with a velvet drape over it and an ancient-looking brown hat.

"One last thing. As those of you who've read _Hogwarts: A History_ are aware, this is the Sorting Hat. If you made it past chapter four–which is a drag, I'll admit–you'd know that the hat can actually think. In their final years, Godric Gryffindor, Salazar Slytherin, Helga Hufflepuff, and Rowena Ravenclaw made a pact to take their memories of teaching and put it in this hat."

"Before the end of term last year, the hat informed my predecessor that this year will be the last year where any student is sorted into Gryffindor, Slytherin, Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw. The hat itself will decide with each student and when the last of the old houses are sorted, the first student announced into each new house…"

Headmistress Granger flicks her thick wand at the banners above each table, and they go white and blank.

"…will unveil their banners, their coat of arms and their house name. The decorations in the dormitories will also change. Any students older than first years will, of course, remain sorted into the house under its prior name and their diplomas as well."

"Shall we? A volunteer? Come on, don't be shy. How about you?"

The headmistress' hand is outstretched, and her square-framed glasses sparkle in the candlelight.

"Uh, right."

She takes the offered hand and with a flick of the professor's wand, a cushioned stool simply appears below her.

"It's actually rather comfy," the headmistress jokes just before the moldering old hat falls over her eyes.

_**Well now…** _

"Well, what?"

_**Delphini Riddle herself. I hadn't expected you to come first.** _

"You know who I am?"

_**More than you, girl. Does the name Tom Riddle mean anything to you?** _

"Should it? I don't even have a name, not one that anyone who matters ever gave me."

The hat sighs. Inside her mind, which makes it weirder still.

_**Not surprised. Doubt you'd be here if you knew. No one's that brave. Let's see. Where to put you. Talent, yes. Rather an idiot savant, aren't you?** _

"Probably just the first bit."

 _ **Nonsense! I'm in your mind, child. You've more power than you need. More than you want. Rough edges too,**_ the hat notes. _**Beatings and going hungry. Not much kindness.**_

"Not much," she agrees. "Nuns weren't big on it."

_**Bah! Nuns! Never will forgive them for what happened to Morgana. Real animal, that woman...the things she could do to the brim of a hat! Putting her in a habit was a disservice to wizards. Witches, too. Fond of redheads, that one. Hufflepuff would be a kindness, but I'm not sure those gentle lambs would know what to do with you. Pulls my stitches to think what you'd do with Gryffindors giving you hints.** _

_**Only one thing to do.** _

"SLYTHERIN!" the hat roars.

_**Enjoy your meal, Delphini Riddle…** _

Delphini stands on wobbly legs.

"It gave me a name," she mumbles. "An actual name, that I like!"

The headmistress beams, pointing out a table on the left side of the hall.

"Now that the bravest among us have gone," Headmistress Granger calls out. "Let us return to the comforting boringness of the alphabet. Finnegan, Liam!"

"Present!"

As she approaches the table, a little girl with messy hair, pallid skin and a knife-thin face nudges her bookbag off the bench and pats it.

"Thanks. So this is Slytherin, huh?"

"For the moment," she sighs. "Damn shame."

She holds her tiny hand out, palm up. Delphini puts hers on top of it and her odd new friend lets their fingers slide apart. Mister Potter's wife said it was called the nightshade handshake.

"You know our traditions. I'm impressed. Ariadna Malfoy."

"Delphini."

Somehow she feels her last name isn't something this stranger needs to know.

"No last name?"

Delphini shrugs.

"I don't remember my parents. They must have died in the war because I ended up in a muggle orphanage."

"Muggleborn, then?"

"Maybe. Maybe not. I don't remember my parents. So how would I know?"

Ariadna blinks and cocks her head.

"That's actually a good point."

"Liam Finnegan!" the hat hollers. "For House Weasley!"

A murmur spreads up and down the tables. The gym teacher–like hell, there's a sport called 'quidditch'–gasps and brings a shaking hand up to her richly freckled face.

The banners, napkins and plates at the table on the other side of the aisle glow painfully bright and when it fades, the griffins and the red-gold on each plate are replaced by a prancing fox and her kits, stitched entirely in red on a white circle trimmed in black. The patches on the robes change, and some of the scarves around the student's necks, too.

"Fitz, Artemisia!" the headmistress calls out.

"House Greengrass!" the hat soon bellows.

The plates at the Slytherin table change. On the herald, the vines recede, the silvery serpent writhes and sinks into the porcelain. In its place, a black triangle replaces the shield and a gold outline of a serpent with a great horned head appears, coiling around a clutch of silver eggs.

"YOU STUPID HAT!" Supria roars. "HER? THE BASTARD?"

A thunderclap rings out. The charms teacher at the faculty table leaps to her feet.

"Supria Elena Madga Fortuna Greengrass!" she snaps, her voice magically amplified. "You will _not_ disgrace our seat, our good name, and our noble line in this manner!"

In the silence after, the dripping wax of the candles can be heard. Supria looks as shocked as her mum does. Maybe they don't yell at each other much. Must be nice to have a mum who doesn't yell at you. Must be nice to have a mum.

"If you please, Headmistress. Put the hat on my daughter's head next. Perhaps she can adapt to her own sorting in a more _ladylike fashion_."

Headmistress Granger beckons Supria up.

"HOUSE GREENGRASS!" the hat bellows before it's within a foot of her head.

The elder Greengrass huffs and nods, apparently satisfied. Her daughter slinks over to the table to discover the only open spot is directly beside her bastard sister. Artemisia doesn't even blink. She simply hands a clean plate and a ladle.

"Thank you," Supria sniffs.

"Hey," Artemisa jokes, putting an arm around her. "I get a free sister. I did great on this deal!"

By the time the plates fill with food from thin air, Lavinge Lovegood has been sorted to House Granger, whose mascot is a huge, blue-and-silver dragon, and Mary Parkinson has been sorted to House Diggory, much to her shrieking displeasure.

* * *

**SEVERAL MONTHS PRIOR...  
**

* * *

**Hermione Granger - Summer, 2020**

"You should have told me sooner, Harry."

"I hope you're not scolding my husband!" Gabby calls from the parlor. "That's my job!"

Harry blasts the cap off his butterbeer with a wandless fire charm. She does the same and leans across the coffee table.

"Cheers."

They both take a silent, thoughtful swig before saying anything.

"Was embarrassed, I suppose."

"I'd think you'd be scared more than embarrassed, if your scar was channeling old Noseless again."

Harry shakes his head.

"It's exactly like that, and completely different, if that makes any sense."

"It makes the exact opposite of sense," she teases.

"Before, I would get little flashes. You remember what it was like. We stole that book on dream interpretation."

Hermione nods.

"With this…"

He groans.

"With this, we're not fighting it, either of us. So the link is clearer and lasts for hours. Days, one time. Merlin, that was terrible."

"How so?"

"Well, the first time we linked, she didn't do much. So I saw a sandwich, some dirty shoes, someone hitting a boy with a belt. Nun, I think. The first time, I didn't know she was a she, even."

"The second time?"

He slumps back in the chair.

"The second time, I got more than I wanted. Imagine being stuck in a body that's not yours for a whole weekend and then the owner looks at a mirror and you realize you're riding along in the head of your arch-nemesis' daughter while she wanks ten hours a day in an abandoned attic."

Hermione laughs so hard that her magic lashes out, frothing both their butterbeers.

"Hmm," she finally manages, very hot in the cheeks. "Sounds awkward, I'll admit."

"So, got a lot more than I wanted with that one. She checked her hair in a mirror after, though. Curly, like Bellatrix but sort of slick and all black, like Tom when he was human."

"Do we know anything else?" she asks.

She doesn't want to know. She wants to forget that this ever happened. She doesn't want to think about Bellatrix squeezing out Voldemort's spawn after faking Molly Weasley out during their duel, or managing to pass the little monster off before the scariest mother in magical history tracked her down and did a more permanent job of it.

"I don't think she knows she can do magic. Truly. She used parseltongue to get a garter snake out from under a lawnmower and lit a fire when she was cold by _wanting one and looking at a stick_. But didn't use an ice charm when a man put a cigarette out on her."

"Jesus. Rough life."

"She'd think she was the in Heaven if someone _only_ as abusive as the Dursleys took her in."

"This house she's squatting in has artifacts. Maybe it's a safehouse, or a cache the Death Eaters left her. Maybe she's just a poor girl alone in a rotting city with dark magic in her blood and she ran for the house that called to her."

"There's a time-turner hanging on her bedside mirror, not that she knows what it is. She has a wand, not that she knows what to do with it. Nastiest one I've ever seen. Big. No carving to it, just a knobby, polished piece of bloody-looking wood with a burnt tip. I tell myself it's just reddish wood but I don't think I believe it. It's a killer's wand."

"We have an epically powerful witch, with enough muggle childhood trauma to give our magical trauma a fight," he sighs, counting on his fingers. "She was living in an orphanage like Tom did, but then she broke out. She gravitates towards artifacts that can blow up the world but doesn't know what they are, so she swings them back and forth when she's bored."

"She hasn't killed anybody, has she?" Hermione asks.

He shakes his head.

"Doubtful. If she hasn't killed the people who have abused her while I'm stuck in her head, she's not exactly quick-tempered. I think maybe the visions of her are clearer because her soul's in one piece. Would explain the fuzziness and the rustling sound inside Tom's mind."

"I put four of my best from Child Finding teams on her. Aurors, cross trained as caseworkers for abandoned muggle-born children. They have seen her shoplifting, conning men in the street pretending to be a prostitute before running off with their money, et cetera. They haven't stepped in because she dials it back just before it's too much. Before it's evil, rather than just opportunistic. She doesn't have any friends. Doesn't have any human contact, besides a crazy man under the overpass she brings stolen beer."

"She has all his magic, though. I can taste it. There's an aftertaste to the link, it's in my mouth when I wake up. Like overdone toast after the toaster has been put out with a fire extinguisher. It tastes...exactly...the same when I wake up."

"What can I do?"

Harry sighs.

"Teach her, Hermione. Make her a better person. Like you did me."

"So no pressure?"

He shrugs.

"Youngest ever Minister of Magic. Third-ever inductee into the Order of Nimue and fourth in the Order of Morgana. The only inductee to the Order of Morgause who never held the title of queen or empress. You can do this, old friend."


	2. A Handy Tip

This story is posted first [here](https://tinyurl.com/y76yrhag) for subscribers, then copied to AO3 at a delay.

**Author's Note:**

> ##  [Want to see the posh stuff? Want to see future chapters early?](https://rb.gy/b1fjhr)
> 
> ### Like it? Hate it? Have questions? Come holler at me about fanfic!
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